


The Sweet Science

by blacktop



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Formalwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktop/pseuds/blacktop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A title match provides a new arena of intimacy for Reese and Carter's volatile sparring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the disturbing case of the Nix sisters, described in the story _Blue Alibi_ , Lionel Fusco tried to make amends to John Reese for perceived errors and missteps. Among the gifts Fusco gave were tickets to a boxing match. This is the story of that match.

 

 

**Round One**

 

Fidgeting in front of Carter’s door, Reese calculated how late he was.

He had said he would pick her up at six, which was an hour and forty-five minutes ago. He knew the Saturday night title bout didn’t actually start until nine; they still had plenty of time to get to the auditorium before the main event began. 

To stop jangling nerves from overwhelming him, he ran a hand over the back of his head; the swelling at the nape meant a bruise was rising there. No headache, but a tenderness that was going to nag for the rest of the weekend, he figured.

He had shaded the truth about the fight’s opening bell. 

Carefully building into his proposed schedule a suitable amount of time for Joss to get ready was a strategy Reese frequently employed. He figured for this big night out she needed extra time for dressing, fixing her hair, putting on make-up, fixing her hair again, changing jewelry three times, fixing her hair yet again. 

Even so, with the Joss factor included, he was seriously running late. And she wouldn’t let him forget it, that was certain.

When Joss flung open the door to her apartment, the sloppy greeting he got from the old black-and-white dog seemed distinctly more enthusiastic than hers. He was happy that Shep seemed to be settling in well to life in the big city, his country ways dropped like a soiled toy as he adjusted to the predictability and comfort of the Carter household. Reese felt proud that he had found this foster home for the dog he had rescued from his last case.

Joss’s place was quiet now, the living room darkened. No smells of cooking from the kitchen, no sounds of video games or television from the hall. Which Reese interpreted as meaning Taylor was gone for the weekend. 

He was glad that the boy had friends and an independent life that was blossoming under Joss’s watchful care; she held the reins tightly, for sure, but was slowly learning to relax her grip in the daily tussle of parenting. Though Reese occasionally gave her a friendly hint with a male approach to a particular issue, he deeply admired how she handled her son. She didn’t need his help with Taylor; she didn’t ask for it and he didn’t offer. 

Now as Reese bent to fondle the dog’s plumed ears he looked up to see just where he stood with Joss.

She startled him by being all ready to go. Dark pants, nice silky red blouse, her hair up in a neat bun on the top of her head, little diamonds in her ears. She looked like she always did –- put together and perfect. 

Of course her sardonic greeting let him know he wasn’t quite up to snuff.

“You’re going like that?”

He hunched a little as her critical eyes travelled down his body: spittle mixed with dust on his jacket lapel, bloody streaks on the shirt front, a rip the size of a silver dollar at the right knee of his trousers. 

His knuckles were scraped and he thought he could feel his lower lip swelling as she inspected his face. He figured he looked exactly like he had just emerged victorious from a fist fight. Which he had.

“Don’t worry. I brought a change of clothes.” 

He wanted to reassure her, so he hitched up his index finger to show the zippered suit bag hooked over his left shoulder.

“Just give me fifteen minutes to shower and I’ll be ready to go.”

Joss looked skeptical at the claim. But the wry curve to her lips puckered into a full-blown kiss when she raised her face to meet his mouth. She drew her hand along his neck and over his jaw, guiding him to a deeper embrace than he had expected. 

His lip throbbed, but the pain was well worth it.

“And you need to shave too.” 

She wasn’t letting him off the ropes tonight at all.

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

Reese showered quickly in the little bath off their bedroom while Joss waited in the living room.

As he lathered up with the Palmolive she kept for him, he returned to the puzzle of exactly why Fusco had given him these ringside tickets. 

Fusco hadn’t said a word, but Reese knew that his friend had received these front row passes as an off-the-books payment after a dicey encounter with some of his HR pals.

He knew also that Fusco really wanted to see the fight. The reigning welterweight champion Ferris Markum was pitted against the exciting challenger, Hector “Kid” Carrano. The cop had been talking for weeks about this matchup between the Monster from Muncie and the smooth-faced Dominican youngster.

So why would Fusco give up this chance to witness the top battle of the current New York season? 

Reese hadn’t come to any definite conclusions. But he guessed his friend’s motive must be anchored in the unsettling case they had worked together in Upstate New York the previous month. He sensed Fusco believed he owed Reese some kind of debt for the way the deadly Nix case turned out. 

Reese didn’t agree. But if Fusco wanted to salve some scratchy guilt by giving away coveted tickets, then he wasn’t about to turn down a chance like this to take Joss out for a special night on the town.

When he had first invited her, Joss said she knew nothing about boxing, except for occasionally watching the Gillette Friday Night Fights on television with her father when she was a small girl.

So in preparation for tonight’s match, he had given her several books on the sport. 

To find them, he had spent a free afternoon pawing through bins of remaindered volumes in a shop near Headquarters. In a matter of hours he had been able to rebuild the collection of favorites he had abandoned when he joined the Agency. 

He found beat up editions of Schulberg, Leibling, Hemingway, Mailer, Oates. Writers from boxing’s muscular past when no one feared mixing poetry with violence or pity or heartbreak.

Over the years, he had memorized a lot from all of them, with special attention to some blunt and lyrical essays in _McIlvanney on Boxing_. 

He couldn’t carry the books with him, of course. Overseas assignments meant travelling light in both duffle and mental baggage. 

So when he could escape Kara Stanton for a while, get away from their hellish missions and ghoulish affair, he would spend nights lying on lumpy hotel beds staring at the ceiling, recalling passages from Ernest Hemingway or Hugh McIlvanney. 

Now he wanted to share some of that with Joss. But only the boxing parts, not the rest, not yet.

So one evening, when Taylor had gone to sleep and they were finishing the last glass from a bottle of blood red claret, he slipped into the recital of a paragraph from McIlvanney’s report of the final fight of bantam weight Welsh boxer Johnny Owen. 

Reese couldn’t look Joss in the face while he spoke; this stuff was too close to the core for him. So he stared out the living room window into the soothing night sky as he talked. 

McIlvanney’s story of poignant waste and sudden death meant something to him, touched something broken inside where he rarely lingered. He was so afraid he would falter as he said the words to her. 

But to his surprise he was able to get through the passage without stuttering or shutting down after the first sentence:

“ _…it was boxing that gave Johnny Owen his one positive means of self-expression. Outside the ring, he was an inaudible and almost invisible personality. Inside, he became astonishingly positive and self-assured. He seemed to be more at home there than anywhere else. It is his tragedy that he found himself articulate in such a dangerous language._ ”

He had never repeated these words out loud before. _Articulate in such a dangerous language._

They sounded so clean and sad when he shared them now. So much like the story of his own life that he shuddered a bit in the silence that enfolded them.

He was moved to see that these thoughts about a boxer dying young seemed to strike something in Joss too. He watched her eyes well up; when he finished she took a long gulp from the glass and ducked her head to wipe away a tear. 

But he hadn’t wanted her to see boxing -- or his own life -- as just violence and brute defeat. 

So to lighten the mood, he tipped up the wine bottle to drain it into his mouth. Then he threw out a gem from Leibling’s book, _The Sweet Science:_

“Boxing is an art of the people, like making love.” 

He leaned into her to plant a flurry of kisses over her chin and throat and ear.

“So does that mean anybody can do it?” 

Joss was sassy again, the melancholy gone as she smiled up at him.

“Sure, but it takes patience and practice and real skill to do it right.”

He rained down kisses until she laughed and begged for mercy and threw in the towel. 

That he could joust with her like this, relaxed and unafraid of her judgment, was a miracle he wanted to enjoy without examination. 

So they had retired to bed that night without saying anything further, taking their time to pleasure each other for a while.

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

The shower over, dressing took only a few more moments in the bathroom, just about as long as it took to shave, fasten the cufflinks, knot the tie, and run a comb through his hair. Fifteen minutes on the nose, just like he had promised.

When he walked into the living room he was unprepared for her reaction to his changed appearance.

He knew the tuxedo fit well, Finch had made sure of that. It was just a variation on his every day uniform, black and white as always, but the jacket was precision cut across the shoulders and narrow through the waist. The satin stripe down the trouser leg felt smooth, almost liquid under his palms, like slipping his fingers over the soft skin below Joss’s ear.

After some extraordinary efforts, Finch and the tailor had even managed to get the shirt collar to lie close to his neck without the gaping he usually experienced. But Reese still felt awkward, like he was wearing borrowed clothes to perform in somebody’s circus. The monkey suit was just way too fancy.

But Joss seemed to approve. 

He liked the hushed intake of breath as she glimpsed him in the hallway. She watched him with a frank unwavering gaze as he walked towards her. And the slight pop of her eyes and smack of her lips when he paused in front of her was satisfying and sexy as hell.

Of course she recovered before she let any real expression of admiration leak out. 

“You didn’t tell me this was a fancy dress ball, John!” 

The bright tone conveying her accusing words wasn’t harsh and it sent little sparks skittering through him from head to groin. 

She whirled her index finger around in the air between them and he turned a complete circle at her command.

“Well, since it’s for the title, people do get more dressed up than usual for a regular boxing match.” He felt a little sheepish being examined this way, so he kept the smart-ass out of his voice to avoid provoking her further.

But she sounded ticked off anyway.

“So now I look like a played out punk. I can see I’m going to have to step up my game here. I can’t go out with you looking this way.”

He thought she was beautiful and he said so.

“Yeah, well you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

“But, we need to get going.” He was alarmed that the time was slipping away as he watched new ideas flit across her face.

“Oh, no! You got your fifteen minutes. I get mine.” 

Before he could object again, she was off the couch, scampering into the bedroom, slamming the door with enough force to make the floor boards jump all down the hall.

When Joss returned to the living room exactly fifteen minutes later, she was wearing a white satin robe and carrying blue spike heels. Her hair, which had been piled on her head, was now loose in soft waves over her shoulders.

“You’re going to the coliseum in a bath robe?” 

He knew she wasn’t, but he couldn’t pass up the chance for a quick jab.

Without a word, she dropped the robe to a puddle around her bare feet and let him take a close look at the transformation she had wrought.

In place of the standard issue pants and blouse outfit, she wore a tightly molded dress in a stretchy royal blue fabric that clung to every curve. 

The dress seemed to be made of long straps of cloth wound around her body, wrapped tightly like an Egyptian mummy. He could see the shape of her breasts and even the pulse of her heart beating between them. He could tell exactly where her belly button dipped in and where her thighs met her torso.

Her throat and shoulders were bare and gleaming. She laid a hand on his forearm, bending low to put on her shoes. 

The skirt wasn’t short, thank goodness. But it tapered down over her hips and thighs following exactly the line of her figure until it ended in a narrow opening at her knees. The dress was so constricting that once she was in the high heels, her walk became a terrifying balancing act that defied gravity at every step. 

And made her ass bunch and wiggle in a way that stirred him to distraction.

Once she was steady on her feet, Reese twirled his index finger in the air between them, just as she had done. Joss turned around slowly; with her back to him, she missed the big gulp of air he took.

“So what do you call this dress? What kind is it, I mean?” He was stammering just a bit, but he thought he disguised the falter well.

“It’s a bandage dress.” 

She said it simply, while she smoothed her hands over her hips, as if it was an obvious fact and he was an expert in female fashion trends.

“You mean because it puts a hurt on a man?” 

“Yeah, something like that, funny guy.” 

She was laughing with him so he curved his arm around her waist and expanded on the idea.

“You’re so pretty you make medicine hurt!” 

Her eyes started a little at that quip and at the distinctive Louisiana drawl he delivered it with.

“Where’d you get that kind of talk from?”

“On Poydras Street in New Orleans.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I was tailing a man there a few years ago… Well, I won’t go into all that. But as I made my way down the street I passed a ragged little guy, thirties, maybe forty. He’d seen better days and he was probably drunk right then.”

Reese bent over slightly to illustrate the posture of the other man.

“But as we were just about side by side, this beautiful girl crosses in front of us. I mean, a real stunner. And this ragged Little Guy says to her, ‘You so pretty, you make medicine hurt!’ Girl smiles, Little Guy stumbles on his way.”

He shook his head and grinned in remembrance.

“Even hitting bottom like that, the Little Guy had swagger to burn. I never forgot it.”

She nodded and laughed and pressed her body against him. He let his hand drift down from the small of her back to her lush ass, noting how firmly the dress strapped her in. 

He would have a hell of a time getting her out of it later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Round Two**

 

Walking to the end of the block, Joss only staggered once on her ultra-high heels and Reese liked it when she had to grip his elbow to stay upright. 

At the corner, she objected briefly to the hulking white Escalade he had waiting for them there. He had discarded the merely posh Lexus in favor of this flashier van because he thought it suited the occasion better.

“Did you steal it, John?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is the owner looking for it?”

“Not anymore.”

She sighed, but that was it, so he counted that as a small victory.

Perhaps city traffic was thin on a Saturday night in July. Or maybe Reese’s driving was particularly effective at parting the congestion. Whatever the case, they arrived at the auditorium in less than forty minutes, just in time to take their seats before the announcer launched his sing-song introductions for the main event.

Reese had attended many prize fights over the years; some in big arenas like this one, some in sandlots or prairie corrals or dank city cellars or tents staked out on desert dunes. 

But he didn’t want to say much to Joss right now; he wanted her to take in the scene raw, unfiltered by his own experiences or opinions. So he watched her closely, imagining her first reactions to the sights and sounds of the giant coliseum.

The place smelled like men. 

There were women around, of course, glittering embellishments on the arms of many escorts. But the air oozed maleness, ripe and unrestrained. 

Even on a gala night like this the primary food consumed in the arena was hot dogs. Low-rent and unapologetically democratic. And the inevitable accompaniments were beer, pretzels, peanuts, onions and the tangiest sauerkraut, mustards and jalapenos in the borough. 

Like Leibling said, boxing was the art of the people.

Overlaying the pungent odors of the basic food groups, Reese could detect the acrid smell of cigarettes and cigars, the smarmy scents of hair oils, aftershave, and cologne. All those artificial elements men used to cover up the more carnal smells of dirt and blood and musk and sweat, pain and fear.

When the two adversaries finally approached the ring, noise rather than smell became the dominant sensation. 

Reese watched Joss’s eyes widen and her jaw drop as the racket in the arena swelled. She leaned against his shoulder, seeking shelter maybe, as the crowd pressed forward with a single impulse, shouting, jeering, howling for their champions.

“You O.K.?” He had to fasten his lips to her ear to make sure she could hear him.

He was ready to whisk her away if she wanted. But she only nodded and clamped her mouth shut, though her eyes got even bigger.

When the boxers climbed into the ring, the photographers leaning on the apron angled and jostled for their shots. Joss flinched then and Reese realized that one heedless cameraman had stepped on her toe in the scrimmage right in front of them. If she squeaked in pain, he couldn’t tell, the crowd noise was overwhelming.

As the audience settled back in their seats, Reese looked down the row to his left and saw faces he recognized in the tuxedoed line-up. 

There was little Danny Bartholomew, a trainer everyone at Neely’s Gym called “Dink.” Dink’s wife Louise was next to him stuffed into a green one-piece jumpsuit that lacked any visible means of escape. 

Honey Hank Washington, a light heavyweight boxer on the rise, was sprawled on the other side of Dink next to Primo “The Big Bruise” Cruz. Despite the optimism of his mother, Primo was no longer number one now, but he kept in shape by working out at Neely’s four or five days a week. 

Reese had sparred with Cruz on several occasions and learned a valuable thing or two in the process. So he caught the older man’s eye and nodded before turning his gaze back to the ring.

“It’s all ceremony right now.” 

Reese whispered below the crowd noise to make sure Joss could hear him. The two boxers stood on either side of the referee, listening with school-boy attentiveness to some last-ditch efforts at establishing rules for the match. Then they touched gloves, raised their eyebrows and chins at each other, and returned to their corners.

“After that, all pretense drops.”

Suddenly the fight was on in the blast of twenty thousand breaths exhaled at once.

Markum and Carrano were well matched. Both were sleekly muscled devotees of the fast punch and deceptive feint. 

Wearing green trunks, the blond champion was slightly taller and had a few pounds over his opponent, mainly around his thickening waist. But he carried the extra weight on plodding feet that made him appear heavier than his announced one hundred and forty-five pounds. His round face was as flat and expressionless as a sewer plate.

The Kid was compact and tawny like a cougar, with his black hair slicked back from a baby face marred by a permanent sneer. Below his white satin shorts, the muscles of his calves knotted and coiled as he sprang around the perimeter of the ring, leaning slightly to the right, bouncing with the fierce confidence of an undefeated challenger.

The first rounds saw both men feeling each other out, circling, darting short jabs that glanced off the shoulder or landed ineffectually against the ribs. The crowd quickly grew restless with this string of air punches and head dodges. By the time the boxers came to the center of the ring for the start of the fourth round, the throng was clamoring for contact, demanding first blood. 

And like the obliging performers they were, the fighters gave the customers what they wanted.

Though he had begun the match with uncharacteristic dancing maneuvers, Monster Markum now planted his feet to deliver two roundhouse blows. He had arms like carved whale bone, covered in delicately traced black tattoos like a sailor’s scrimshaw. When his twin punches landed they rocked the Kid back on his heels.

After taking a deep breath to gather himself, Carrano responded with a flurry of deft jabs from both sides that seemed to surprise Markum with their speed and power. The Kid took only a few flashing movements to open up a cut on Markum’s left temple. Blood dripping freely into his eye caused the audience to break out into a chorus of sustained shouts which diminished only when the bell was rung for the end of the round. 

A girl in a sequin-spangled red swim suit paraded around the ring carrying a large placard announcing the number of the next round. Reese thought she looked tired and hungry instead of elated, which was the message her rigid grin was supposed to convey.

Tipping his head toward the dreary woman, Reese whispered, “Boxing is a harsh way to make a living, even for those girls.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t think they notice that up in the nose-bleed seats.” He thought Joss might be about to say something more when the cell buzzed from his breast pocket.

“I need to take this call outside. It’s Finch.” 

He moved swiftly past her knees, tapping the shoulders of several journalists to clear a path to the aisle, and then disappeared. He found a deserted corridor near the locker rooms where the din was muffled.

In elaborate sentences, Finch summarized the conclusion of their latest case. Four men and fifteen women had been charged with running paid sex services behind the doors of a string of day spas in Brooklyn. Their number, a Vietnamese manicurist who was collaborating with the NYPD investigation, had been rescued after a hair-raising altercation. Timely intervention by Fusco saved the young man’s life and earned the cop yet another commendation for his stellar work. 

Case closed, number safe, Fusco confounding his corrupt colleagues once again. A good ending to an unsavory story.

When Reese returned to the arena, the fifth round was over. As he neared his seat, he saw that Joss was not alone. 

Honey Hank Washington was hovering over her, his shovel-like hand clamped on her shoulder. Preening, flashing his teeth, Washington’s unjustified swagger was on full display as Reese made his way down the front row.

Reese didn’t know if Honey Hank got his nickname from the golden color of his eyes and skin, or his smooth talk, or the sweetness of his right hook. But he was sure he didn’t want the man anywhere near Joss.

He wanted to slug Hank, deck him for daring to touch her. But this evening the fighting was supposed to be confined to the ring. 

So Reese smiled at his opponent and sublimated the way civilization required.

“Hank, it’s good to see you up and around again. After that standing eight count the last time out, I figured you would take a few years off. Reconsider career choices maybe.”

The heavyweight grimaced at Reese, but deepened his smile as he winked at Joss.

“How you doin’, Ryder? Long time no see.” 

Washington continued throwing his words at Reese but kept his wolf gaze on Joss.

“You know, Ryder. I can’t for the life of me figure out how a second rate flailer like you lands a knock-out like her.” 

The two men were standing chest to chest now, the shiny buttons on their pleated shirt fronts tapping from the contact.

“Hank, considering all the head blows you’ve sustained, it’s going to take you an _extra-long_ time to figure that out.” 

Though the words were light, Reese’s voice grew lower as the sentence closed.

“John.” 

Joss said his name in a drawling way that had a warning wrapped inside a plea. He didn’t take his eyes off of the other man.

Suddenly Washington laughed, winked again at Joss, and backed off from the confrontation. As he turned toward his seat, the fighter threw out a final challenge.

“Catch up with you later at Neely’s, Ryder.” 

When he resumed his place beside her, Reese knew Joss wasn’t going to let that little altercation pass unremarked.

“You know that guy?” 

“Honey Hank Washington? Yes, I train with him at Neely’s Gym over on thirty-third street.”

“And you go by ‘John Ryder’ when you’re there?”

He shrugged, not apologizing, but acknowledging the awkwardness of peeling back yet another layer of his complicated life.

“Yes, it seemed to fit the place.”

 

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

The title fight surged on, shifting in rhythm and texture as the boxers wearied or rallied. 

At times, Reese felt certain the challenger was on the verge of delivering a knock-out blow. But as the rounds expired the champion clung to his precarious position, never going down, never opening himself up to a conclusive assault. 

Frustration creased Carrano’s boyish face and the gestures by the seconds in his corner grew more frantic as the fight staggered on.

When Markum finally managed to land a vicious clout across the Kid’s temple, Joss cringed. 

Moaning softly she leaned toward Reese and clutched his thigh, digging her blunt nails hard into the muscle. He covered her hand with his, squeezing the knuckles until she eased her grip. He didn’t look into her face then, but he could feel the tension and excitement crackling from her body into his.

Carrano tripped backwards but did not fall. Shaking his head, he seemed to want to clear the cobwebs or maybe deny that the blow had really connected.

“Is he going to go down?” 

Joss hadn’t taken sides in the fight, but the tremor in her voice showed her concern that the contender wasn’t up to the long onslaught.

“Not necessarily. He’s resilient and smart. He’ll bounce back.” 

Reese felt he sounded more cock-sure than he really was but he knew that declaring a winner too early was a ticket to disaster.

The truth of every boxing match is that someone always loses. And the harsh reality for any champion is that his downfall is pre-ordained. Eventually either a challenger or old age will catch up with him to deliver a knock-out punch. The long term outcome is always the same: defeat. No getting around it. But even that grim inevitability wasn’t a reason to fold before the last bell was rung.

Taking Joss’s hand in both of his, he turned her palm up so that he could fit his fingers securely around hers. He looked at her face finally, hoping that she would accept the reassurance he was offering even if it was scant. 

She lowered her chin at first. But then she looked up and threw a smile that ambushed him with its sheer force and confidence. 

She was in his corner and it felt right.

He saw her eyes go a little dreamy then, vague and inward in their focus. He couldn’t tell where her thoughts were floating, so her next words truly shocked him.

“You know, I’m not wearing anything under this dress.” 

As he shifted in his seat, he tried not to let his eyes trail down her body. Keeping his gaze pinned on her face as best he could, he saw her smile change from comforting to foxy in an instant.

He gripped her hand harder, but decided not to reply just yet. Sputtering was not the reaction he wanted to share.

When he was able to speak without stammering, he tried out a nonchalant approach.

“Not a stitch, hunh? O.K. Well, I’m glad you told me that little piece of news now rather than at the beginning of the match.”

He fought for the right tone, light and easy.

“If you had, I might have pounded Honey Hank Washington senseless for the way he was looking at you!”

Joss laughed, her eyes closing in mirth, and she leaned across the arm rest to plant a kiss just above his ear.

“Don’t hold back, John. Not on my account.” 

And she laughed some more until he was as hard as a fist, his erection straining towards her inside his damned tuxedo trousers. 

 

XXXXXXXXX

 

**Round Three**

 

As the referee paraded Kid Carrano around the ring, hoisting his gloved hand in the air to proclaim the victory, the fickle crowd united in shrieking its approval. 

Blood lust was satisfied, the atavistic demand for youth’s victory over age answered with a final fusillade of punches to Markum’s gut. He had crumpled to his knees then. Unable to rise from the canvas, the old champion had glanced toward his corner as the referee chopped the air over his head to mark the final count.

Then Reese grabbed Joss’s right triceps above the elbow and led her toward the exit. As they sliced forward, they battled against the crowd which surged toward the ring to cheer the new champion.

Finally back in the Escalade, Reese careened down abandoned side streets, finding short cuts and challenging yellow lights at every intersection. 

Once he got caught by a red light and thought better of blasting through under the all-seeing eye of the traffic camera. 

So he took advantage of the pause to place his right hand on Joss’s knee. He slowly rolled the elastic hem of her dress between his thumb and forefinger. When he gunned the engine again, he let his hand drift northward along her thigh. He thought she might object or at least squirm, but she held still as he explored. 

By the end of the next block, the dress compressed against her body, he reached his goal. 

He discovered that all she had promised was true: nothing met his probing fingers but damp soft skin and precious curls. She sighed as he caressed her, her throat arched, her mouth falling open to whisper his name as she held his hand in place.

After that the ride home seemed to extend for hours.

No parking spaces on the block meant that Reese had to drop Joss in front of her building and roam for ten minutes looking for a slot big enough for the Escalade. When he didn’t find one, he left the gigantic van double parked near a fire hydrant, taking care to wipe away all fingerprints from the interior before abandoning it.

So he arrived at Joss’s front door in much the same manner as he had started the evening: fidgeting, nervous, and eager to see her. 

She opened the door and stepped back to let him in, just like before. Only this time the dog wasn’t around and all the lamps were off. He could only see the outline of her body in the soft moonlight that flowed through the living room. Her shoes were gone and her head was only as high as his heart. She was breathing hard as if she had been running.

Seeing her silhouetted against the window like that, he thought at first that she was already naked. But touching his fingers to her waist he realized that the form-fitting dress was still in the way. 

“How does this come off? You unwrap it?” 

He pinched a little of the stretchy material and let it snap back.

“Just watch.” She said this low and quirked her head to one side. The purring sent a jolt to his groin.

She leaned down to seize the bottom of her dress in both hands. Seeing her fingers playing along the hem just as he had done in the car made his gut clinch with desire. But she was setting the pace for this match and he was happy to let her lead him.

If she had been efficient about it, he was sure she could have pulled off the bandage dress in a quick minute. 

But instead she shimmied the elastic fabric up slowly, so slowly, until he could see the lean muscles of her thighs and then the shadowed prize of her sex.

He thought he might have groaned then. This long count was torture. 

Or maybe he suppressed the sound until the damned dress was doubled over her breasts, squeezing them into impossible shapes that he wanted to test with his own hands. As her nipples popped free, he knew he gasped.

When the dress was clinging to her face, he took the chance to step forward; but even blindfolded Joss was agile and danced backwards beyond his reach.

After a final wriggle that made his knees go soft and his cock stiffen, she escaped the dress. In a flamboyant move, she tossed it onto the sofa and faced him, solemn and closed mouth. Again, he tried to approach her and again she retreated.

It was his turn, he figured. So he loosened his bow tie and toed off his shoes, but when he made to shake the jacket off his shoulders, Joss spoke.

“Keep the tux. I like it.”

“I, uh. Yes…” This wasn’t his finest moment. Yet.

She crowded his body then, pressing hard against him so that they touched from chest to knee. Her sleek flesh enfolded like a gleaming trophy within the tailored construct of his tuxedo. 

She curved her arms around his waist and for a minute she held him so close that he could feel her rapid moist breath through the pleats on his shirt. 

Working her fingers around his waistband, she removed the gun nestled at the small of his back and threw it to join her dress on the sofa.

She slid her hands under his shirt, along his spine, and up to his shoulder blades. He placed his hands in the same position on her back and kept them still. 

But he couldn’t hold the restraint for long. He needed to trace the faint ridges of the bandages that had circled her body. He wanted to feel the elongated indentations that slanted along her ribs and the way the strapping had left creases across her tender nipples and belly. These delicate markings were like a tattoo he could decipher with his fingers as he followed their trails across her torso.

Then she stepped off slightly to move her hands across his chest. 

The drag of her finger pads against his ribs and stomach was exquisite. He imagined he could even feel the whorls of her prints as they danced over his heated skin. A bead of sweat slipped down his chest and she traced its path with her middle finger. She drew patterns in the hair that feathered below his navel until he thought he must cry out.

He wanted this provocation to go on forever. To be tangled with her like this always.

But when she touched both nipples he cringed at the direct scrape of fingernails across sensitive nerve endings. It was too much.

“Please, Joss. Let me… I, I want you.” 

He moved his thigh between her legs, leaning into her now, angling so that she could feel the power of his desire.

The rotation of her hips into his drew the cloth across his cock. There the minute folds and creases of fabric tugged at his swollen skin, scoring complex patterns and lines that simple flesh could never create. He felt woozy with the sensation; but he was determined not to sink to the floor just yet.

He didn’t remember her lowering the zipper to stroke his cock. Maybe they had been standing this way for some time, caught in such a raw embrace that it took away all understanding or language.

He raised both hands to steady her head then so that he could kiss her for the first time. Her tongue was strenuous and disciplined in the sweet competition; taking his measure, strength against hot strength.

Now something in these caresses seemed to galvanize her into bolder action. 

She pulled at his arms so that they slid together to the floor, knees colliding with wood, the coffee table pushed aside; maybe a glass or a candle tumbled in the heedless dive.

They hadn’t spoken in so long that her voice felt like gentle thunder in his ear as she asked for him.

“Give yourself to me, John. Now.”

“Yes,” was all he could manage as he settled between her thighs.

Still clothed, he pushed inside her, so soft and tight and wet for him. Now he carried the fight to her, rallying from his earlier torpor, giving her all his energy in thrust after thrust. He rotated his torso and hips, keeping his shoulders and arms rigid to save her from his weight. 

Like a glutton, she absorbed his strokes, arching to meet him blow for blow. The usual smacking sounds of flesh against flesh were muffled by his clothing so that all that remained were brute grunts to mark their collision. 

With her shoulders and feet planted on the floor and her knees pressing against his flanks inside his jacket, he could power into her again and again until they were both exhausted. The climaxes, hers then his, were fierce and direct. It was sweet to gasp together and then sigh together and finally to collapse together, blowing in time to their heartbeats.

He kissed the sweat from her brow and nose and mouth and chin. Then he shifted to rest his head on her breasts. He gently clasped one and pressed its yielding mass to his face. Joss wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him for a long time, stroking his damp hair as he returned to the world.

He knew he lived his life on the outer edge, like a boxer, always dancing into the shadow of danger and out again. 

But for now, right now, if he could hold on to this precarious balance, maybe all the battering, the strain, and the punishment would be worth it for a little while longer.


End file.
